The Conquerer Worm
by Agent420
Summary: And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall.


THE CONQUERER WORM by Agent420  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own X or Tokyo Babylon, nor the works of Edgar Allen Poe. Instead I am reduced to writing fanfiction about all three.  
  
This was inspired by a dream I had, so you'll have to forgive me if it's vaguely incomprehensible. I won't offer any more explanation than that; just read it and tell me what you think.  
  
Wails, sobs and maniacal laughter assaulted Ayumi from all sides as she strode doggedly down the corridors of the mental hospital, her briefcase thumping rhythmically against her thigh with each step. She hummed a popular song to herself, ignoring the ogling eyes and gaping mouths of the patients as they watched her progress down the hall. She was again mulling over her plans for the evening. When she departed from the appointment she'd probably stop at the supermarket, to pick up the ingredients for the dinner she promised to prepare for her boyfriend when he arrived at her apartment. /Oden/, she mused. /It'll warm him right up, he'll probably be cold after working outside all day like that.... Then maybe we can have a nice dessert, something homemade, and we can rent that movie he wanted to see—/  
  
"Dr Toriyama-san?"  
  
She very nearly jumped out of her skin as one of the sanitarium's employees addressed her. She regarded him with some curiosity. She had been meeting Yuriko like this for months now, and the hospital's staff had grown so used to her visiting they hardly acknowledged her anymore.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You're visiting Morikawa-san again, aren't you?" The young man's eyes were luminous with distress.  
  
"Of course."  
  
He stared at her. "Then you really ought to know.... Morikawa Yuriko-san was found dead this morning. It was murder. Her heart was ripped out of her body."  
  
All the wistful thoughts came crashing to a halt as Ayumi's briefcase slipped from her hand, hitting the floor with a clamour that resonated within her heart like a deathbell.  
  
Police cars surrounded Morikawa Yuriko's house that evening. Neighbours flocked at a distance, watching wide-eyed as detectives entered and departed at random intervals, pausing only to pelt passersby with questions regarding the mad young woman's unsightly death. The neighbours could hardly deliver— taking into account that Yuriko had been confined to the local mental hospital for over six months—but the detectives were desperate for a lead in what seemed like an utterly unsolvable case.  
  
It was murder; that was common knowledge now. But who on earth could sneak their way into a top-security medical facility, remove someone's heart and take it home with them without so much as turning a head?  
  
Ayumi pulled into the driveway round eleven that night, her plans with her boyfriend thrown unceremoniously out the proverbial door. Her strategy was to arrive late, after most of the crowds had dissipated. She wanted to have a good long look at her patient's home without the interference of prying neighbours and gung-ho detectives.  
  
She stepped out of her Jeep and headed to the back door, moving as quickly and quietly as possible. When she entered the house she was plunged into a silence so piercing it hurt her ears. It was dark, too dark. She fumbled round for a lightswitch, suddenly realising that she was stepping into a house that had been utterly uninhabited for over six months.  
  
The silence was so all-encompassing that she could hear the furious cadence of her heart as she scaled the rickety staircase. The fear she felt was beginning to disturb her; as a psychologist she had spent her life attempting to rationalise such emotion, and this gnawing sense of unease was inexplicable and unnecessary. But she couldn't help but feel like /something/ was watching her, some form of inhuman presence that was scrutinising her every move.  
  
She made it to the top floor, and slowly made her way along the hallway to the bedroom. Clouds of dust flew about her ankles with each step she took, the hardwood floor creaking audibly under her feet. 1 She stepped cautiously into the bedroom, sliding her hand along the wall until she encountered a lightswitch. Slowly she drew inside, suddenly painfully aware that she hardly possessed the deductive abilities of a detective; surely she wouldn't be able to pick up on anything they didn't already consider. Still she searched, desperate for something, /anything/ that could make her feel any more at ease about her patient's murder.  
  
Immersed as she was with her inspection of the bedroom, she failed to notice that the hem of her skirt had caught on a loose nail protruding from the hardwood. She stumbled, and in her fall managed to pull up an entire floorboard. She clutched at her chest and took several deep breaths, recovering from the initial shock. Then she peered beneath the floorboard, and her heart stopped.  
  
A diary.  
  
/How could they not have found this?!/ her brain screamed, before rationality informed her that most detectives didn't wear long, floral-printed skirts to work. Carefully she reached within, closing her hands round the dusty little journal and lifting it out. Somewhere within her mind she could hear a voice screaming at her to drop the book, turn on her heels and get the holy hell away from here, but as a psychologist she could hardly allow herself to submit to subconscious behaviour. 2 Still, she had to fight the urge to bolt as she slid her fingers between the pages and slowly opened the book.  
  
/Yuriko, I'm going to find out what happened to you. I promise./  
  
She moved to seat herself on the bed, took a deep breath, and began to read.  
  
19 Decembre, 1999  
  
I fear I am going mad, my dearest diary.  
In this tremulous madness that consumes my person even as I write, I find that rationality somehow finds its way unto me when I pen my thoughts. So if anyone should happen upon this diary, you will now learn the story of my madness, and thus know of its origin.  
  
It was at the reception of my own wedding night when the insanity first was kindled. Of course, at the beginning there was nothing in me but joy; my newfound mate and I had planned a wondrous revel in the style of an old-fashioned masquerade ball, and had invited everyone we knew. It would take place at my husband's manor, a gorgeous specimen of Gothic architecture that had been in his family for centuries. We were breathless with excitement as we planned the evening, having scheduled it on the eve of Halloween, following our wedding at the oldest chapel in the city.  
  
The wedding itself is but a fleeting memory now. I fear I can no longer recount it in my mind, for the horrid events succeeding it are too ripe and vibrant and all-encompassing. I cannot stop to describe it; I fear my rational mind is waning even as I pen this, dwindling in my haste to deliver this account of my madness. But I must continue.  
  
The revel, as scheduled, took place round seven o'clock that evening, as was to continue until the hour of one. My husband had deftly prepared the foyer as to be the dancing hall, bedizening it with extravagant ornaments resembling that of bygone times. It is rather strange that, in my excitement for the evening, I had failed to notice until now the nature of my husband's behaviour. He moved constantly and without pause, his face glowing with a feverish anxiety that at the time I attributed to the hustle and bustle of the evening. I failed to conceive, most grievously, that a subtle fear was playing at my husband's fair features, one that would later resonate so soundly in my own heart.  
  
At the hour of seven the guests began to pour in, all dressed in the manner of a traditional masquerade. Bedecked in my own costume as well as a mask I had fashioned myself, I flew down the winding staircase to greet them. In doing so I passed the grandfather clock, and the familiar chill of foreboding washed swiftly over my being.  
  
A masterpiece of ebony, the grandfather clock, standing over ten feet in height, was the oldest embellishment of the aged manor house. I often questioned why my husband elected to preserve such a large and obtrusive monolith, which loomed above all else like the figure of Death himself, waiting to swoop down upon the unwary for to steal away their souls. Indeed, each time I passed the black pillar for to descend the staircase, I felt as if I was treading upon my own grave. The disquietude that seized my heart was fleeting yet horribly potent, and I found myself dreading the coming of the next hour, when the clock would again let forth a sonorous toll that reverberated about every wall in the house, as if to signify some horrid event.  
  
Indeed that dread assailed me as the clock sang its ghastly tune to announce the hour, and I could see the same emotion bestir among the guests; masked though they were, I saw their bodies subtly tense and their eyes widen noticeably in discomfiture. A moment later, however, the frightful clock had ceased its dreaded song, the guests regarded me with smiles and congratulatory expressions, as if nothing had happened.  
  
The night was otherwise wondrous; we had managed to procure a small band of musicians for the evening, and they spent the hours filling the halls with strange and magical music to which the revellers glided gracefully about the dance floor. It was apparent that everyone was delighted; smiles graced every masked face as food and champagne were served, and the dancers whirled about in ecstacy. Only at the dawning of each hour did the smiles fade and dancers pause, when the ebony clock again let forth its dire call.  
  
I should have found it more strange, upon reflection, that as time passed and the hours drew toward midnight, my husband's behaviour grew more and more peculiar. Even as he strolled to and fro amongst the guests, making conversation and occasionally submitting to a lady's request to dance, the anxiety he had shown earlier seemed to intensifty. Indeed, as the clock struck the witching hour his face was dotted with perspiration and his hands shook with fear. Upon noticing this I drew towards him in concern, just as a strange sort of hush began to sweep over the guests.  
  
Confused, I stopped to search out the origin of the disturbance. It became clear to me at once what had caused such silence to overcome my guests, as well as the musicians, whose song had abruptly ended. At the front of the hall stood a figure dressed entirely in black, utterly still and silent, wearing a mask so unspeakably horrid that I find my heart quickening with terror as I recall it. The visage was that of a corpse, twisted in agony of death, dotted with droplets of blood. Indeed, the countenance it bore was so ghastly that not a single face retained its colour, and not a pair of lips moved to speak. The only figure in animation was that of my husband, who was now so utterly consumed by terror that he simply turned on his heel and fled up the staircase to the corridors beyond.  
  
Much to the horror of the guests and myself, the black figure drew forth and set to follow him. My paralysis was broken only by fierce love for my husband, which drove me to tear through the guests after the retreating figure. Several remaining revellers stood rooted to the spot, as only a few gathered the presence of mind to linger after. But I hardly noticed this as I flew frantically down the dark corridors, dazed with fear for my husband as I chased the wraithlike figure. Nor did I see immediately the subtle changes that were occuring around me; indeed, the halls grew ever darker as I drew nearer to the chambre beyond, and soon the darkness was so thick and opaque that I could no longer detect the presence of my quarry. Gingerly I groped about, edging nearer and nearer to the afforementioned chambre, and in doing so my senses sprung alive as a scent assailed my nostrils. It was unknown to me why this scent quelled ever so slightly my fears; perhaps it was the fact that it was so /pleasant/. A strange, cloying scent surrounded me, the dewy perfume of flowers on a spring morning. I had to fight to keep myself from sinking into a reverie, as if the sweet fragrance were beckoning me to my death.  
  
Just as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I reached my destination. I drew cautiously inside the shadowy chambre, and found that it was warmly lit by some unknown source. The light surrounded the scene before me, and I was able to fully bestow my sight upon it. My heart stopped.  
  
My dearest husband lay dead at the feet of the figure in black, who had long discarded its mask. It was bizarre, truly, how little dismay I felt at the loss of my husband. The shock assaulted me all for a moment, then seemed to dwindle into nothing as it was overtaken by my fascination with the murderer. For the face showed no resemblance to the vile mask it had been hidden beneath.  
  
I beheld before me the pallid face of a youth, a man somewhere in his twenties, a face so preternaturally beautiful that it seemed almost sinful to look at it. It was smooth and without flaw, so perfectly sculpted as would be the face of a handmade porcelain doll. The hair was cut in a manner as to frame the face in black velvet, a colour so rich it seemed to be made of night. It would have been the face of an angel but for the eyes.  
  
The right eye was amber, shot with gold, the eye of a raptor. It was hard, cold as ice, and utterly apathetic. I could see nothing in that eye but shadow, descending endlessly into a realm of darkness, where only death reigned. The singular cruelty of that eye was bizarrely outset by the nature of the other, which broke my heart in so complete a fashion that the ache I felt over the loss of my husband seemed to dwindle into nihility. The left eye was a melancholy green, and held within it all the confusion and innocence of a child. There was something broken in that eye, something long since dead, a sort of piercing sadness that surpassed anything the ordinary mortal could comprehend. At once I felt an aching pity for this beautiful creature, who only moments before had struck such unimaginable terror within me.  
  
With a tremulous voice I inquired as to who he was. The youth said nothing, only fixed me with those beautiful, horrible, wonderful eyes and slowly stretched forth his hand. Within the slender, gloved fingers gleamed a golden key, which I reached out to grasp with a trembling hand. For a moment I simply stood staring at the little instrument, until the boy spoke in a voice so low and soft I could liken it to the coo of a dove.  
  
"Here is the key to that which he has kept hidden from you."  
  
I meant to ask what he meant with such cryptic words, but I could not find the breath to do so. I simply stared at the little golden key, unable to look at the twisted corpse of my husband nor the schizophrenic eyes of the youth. I stared for a very, very long while, until at last I realised that the light had long since faded from the chambre, and I was now standing alone within it. Frantic, I searched about, and was able to convince myself for a fleeting moment that it had all been some sort of fantasy, and that I would return to find the revel continuing as it began, and again become lost in the ecstacy of youth and love. But the solid presence of the key in my hand told me clearly that I had not been caught up in some sort of bizarre reverie brought on by the sweet, long-faded scent of the flowers.  
  
Shock attacked me from all sides, paralysing me and forcing a scream from my throat which had hitherto been clenched shut with alarm. My husband was dead! He was dead, and his corpse was nowhere to be found!  
  
I spun on my heel and ran wildly back through the corridors to the entrance hall, my white skirts flying about me, the key still clenched tightly in my palm. As I emerged upon the staircase it immediately struck me that my guests had somehow vanished; not a single soul remained in the cavernous hall, in which the only audible sound was that of the steadily ticking grandfather clock. I was horribly alone, with only the hideous ebony structure to accompany me.  
  
Perhaps the madness had arrived then, only subtly, for I found myself staring unblinkingly at this monolith that had before struck such unfathomable terror in me. I had been clenching the golden key so tightly that my hand had grown numb, and thus I could no longer feel the trinket's presence within my fingers. However, upon fixing my gaze on the sleek ebony door of the clock did I recall the boy's soft-murmured words.  
  
/Here is the key to that which he has kept hidden from you./  
  
The key.........  
  
My eyes now fell upon the door whose presence I had failed to recognize previously in my haste to avoid the clock at all costs. And—my heart violently wrenched within my bosom—my eyes fell upon a single tiny keyhole whose metallic gleam was twin to the key I held fervently in my grasp. Oh god, how difficult it is to keep my hand from shaking and my heart from bursting forth as I pen this........for this, my reader, is the moment when I met madness! It is the moment when my very world fell, breaking into myriad minute shards of glass, never to be repaired! For I shoved the golden key home, and what greeted me was BLOOD! Blood and flesh and bone severed and ripped and POURING from within, oh god, I saw a HEAD and torn members of a woman's bosom! Oh god oh god the blood and and murder and the staring gaping eyes of the head surrounded by its limbs was my husband's doing! THE KEY! The key had unlocked my husband's dire secret!  
  
And thus the passage ended with formless scratches that Ayumi couldn't interpret. Shivering uncontrollably, she let the book fall back into its grave, and pushed herself up. Her breath came in slow, wheezing gasps, and a sheen of cold sweat chilled her body. She took a step, stumbled, then wrenched herself to her feet, staggering to the door as quickly as she could. She didn't want to stay in this house a second longer.  
  
She left the house without looking back, then stumbled to her car and hastily climbed within. She knew she should have brought the diary with her, so she could take it to the police office the next day. But she couldn't bear the thought of going back inside that house, and again touching that horrid account that was repeating itself over and over in her mind like a song. She flipped on the radio and turned it as loud as she could, pulling out of the driveway just as a sheet of rain began to descend about the empty street, streaming down her windshield and obscuring her sight.  
  
"Shit," she hissed, squinting as she sped through the darkness. The rain was pounding on all sides, and through the torrents she found she could no longer discern where the road was. She hit a bump, veered off course, and let out a shriek of terror as her car spun off the road into a ditch. She was thrown from her seat and hit her head hard on the windshield, which cracked. She slumped, slipping into unconsciousness as the car jerked to a stop, motionless as the rain continued to assault it.  
  
She came to just as the rain began to let up, changing into a light drizzle. She rubbed the blood out of her eyes, fighting to stay conscious as her head seared with pain. She took a deep breath and reached for the door, then froze as her eyes fell upon the cracked windshield.  
  
Perched upon the front of the car was a stately raven, whose brilliant, intelligent eyes were fixed directly upon her. It stood utterly still, unperturbed by the sheen of rain falling steadily upon its sleek ebony feathers, and stared as if to judge her. Ayumi sat paralysed with fear. /A hallucination/, she told herself. /It's the mental response to cranial injury. It's perfectly normal, I'm just hurt, I'm not going mad, I'm just seeing things./  
  
Seeing things. But isn't that what insane people did?  
  
/Mimes, in the form of God on high,  
Mutter and mumble low,  
And hither and thither fly—  
Mere puppets, who come and go/  
  
She couldn't take it anymore. She wrenched open the door and stepped out, emerging into the cold. She huddled herself together, shaking uncontrollably, and fought to discern where she was. It wasn't Yuriko's street, that was for sure. Nor did it appear to be in any way connected to the town. There were no buildings in sight; just an empty lot surrounded by a growth of trees. The street leading beyond was veiled in fog and seemed to stretch on forever into darkness.  
  
/What do I do now?/ she thought wildly. She figured there was no getting anywhere this late at night, and she would surely catch her death if she stayed outside. She made toward the car, wishing with all her might that she had brought her cell phone with her. But it was at her apartment, where she should have been this night, cuddled up with her boyfriend in her warm double bed, safe from the rain outside.  
  
As she drew toward the car, the sight of the raven made her stop in her tracks. It hadn't moved from its perch on her windshield, and was still staring intensely at her. Ayumi began to tremble uncontrollably, fear such as she had never felt before seizing her entire form, paralysing her. But why? Why was she so afraid? It was a bird, just a bird....... She was rational, she was smart, this fear was unnecessary.......  
  
/But see, among the mimic rout  
A crawling shape intrude!  
A blood-red thing that writhes from out  
The scenic solitude!/  
  
Those eyes.......  
  
"Nevermore."  
  
Her heart stopped. Someone was standing behind her. She froze, knowing full well that there was nowhere for her to run. Prayers flew across her mind as she braced herself for her fate. Pallid and shaking, she turned around.  
  
/It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs  
The mimes become its food,  
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs  
In human gore imbued/  
  
A young man in black stood before her, with a face more beautiful than she had ever laid eyes upon before. Fine black hair fell into his eyes, the same eyes that Yuriko had been so enchanted with. One of them was cold and peircing, the same eye as that of the raven, the eye of a hunter. The second, however..... The green orb was that of stained glass that veiled a soul battered and broken, raped and destroyed.  
  
"Who are you?" Ayumi whispered. Her fear had reached such a pitch that she found her rationality dwindling away, replaced by madness and a morbid fascination with the strange and captivating youth. She began to sink into a stupor as a strange, sweet scent surrounded her, that of dew-dappled flowers.  
  
She hardly noticed the young man drawing close to her, winding an arm round her shoulders. She sagged against him, suddenly filled with a strange sort of peace. Her eyes never had the chance to close as he stabbed his hand into her chest, fingers closing tightly round her heart as he pulled it from her body.  
  
/And, over each quivering form,  
The curtain, a funeral pall,  
Comes down with the rush of a storm/  
  
His work completed, he let the corpse fall to the ground, just as the rain began to fall anew. He gazed at the human heart he held in his hand, and found he had no revulsion, nor any sorrow to spare for the woman he killed. Not a single emotion stirred within him as the heart in his hand grew colder and colder, so like the one that still beat in his own chest.  
  
He looked up at the raven, who never moved from its perch. It continued to stare at him, its wild eyes peering into his broken soul.  
  
"Would you mock me now?" he whispered.  
  
The raven let out a shriek then took flight, and the young man watched as it soared above the treetops, circling steadily above him before vanishing into darkness.  
  
/While the angels, all pallid and wan,  
Uprising, unveiling, affirm  
That the play is the tragedy 'Man,'  
And its hero the Conquerer Worm./ 3  
  
FINIS  
I alluded to three different Poe stories in this fic (not including 'The Conquerer Worm'). Two should be pretty damned easy to point out. If you name all three I'll give you a cookie.  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
1 I wanted to be more descriptive here, but seeing as this is a fanfic I felt it would be unnecessary to elabourate on such things when most readers would rather have me advance the story.  
  
2 You'll have to forgive my bitterness about psychologists. Don't get me wrong—I've had some great shrinks in the past and am currently seeing the best one I've ever had—but many of them are hopelessly mundane and insensitive. The human psyche is not something you can just read out of a book, even if you've spent years and years studying it.  
  
3 This is, by far, my very favourite poem.


End file.
